


Of Fever and Fairy-tale

by feveredsweetness



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: After the Fall, Hannigram - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, ItsStillBeautiful, M/M, One Shot, Sickfic, beware of vomit, mentions of Chiyoh, post-S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feveredsweetness/pseuds/feveredsweetness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will becomes ill after an infection settles in one of his wounds. Hannibal comes to his aid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fever and Fairy-tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murdergatsby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murdergatsby/gifts).



> I thoroughly enjoyed writing this, and I hope murdergatsby enjoys reading it. Thank you for allowing me to write out this idea. <3 ^_^

“H-Hannibal,” Will says, winded, the pain medication having worn off. Trying to walk down the corridor to Hannibal’s room was a mistake, but the acidic upset in his stomach and throat has been too much to bear. His body doubles over, jaw clenching and throat muscles contracting as he fights against oncoming waves of agony. 

Hannibal opens his eyes, fatigue fogging over his vision at first. A few rapid blinks and clarity presents itself.

Will is standing in his room before him, his plaid pajama pants rumpled from sleep and distress.

Evening hours, Hannibal approximates, using the dusk painted light filtering through half closed shades. His gaze flits back to the man.

Will Graham. Hell’s latest escapee. His dark curly hair glistens with sweat, plastering itself against his forehead. His eyes are half scrunched in pain and disorientation, no doubt from the fever setting in from infection.

Chiyoh had left last week. She’d likely not return, having left them in the cottage well-stocked with all that he and Will would need.

Will continues to stand there as a healing Hannibal rises from bed, maroon eyes reflecting drugged yet sincere concern.

He swiftly pads over to him, dressed in surprisingly plain pajama trousers.

“Will. Which wound?” His accent thick from sleep.

Will’s eyes darken, radiant blue no more. His throat clicks, and after a hard swallow, he goes to answer.

His face suddenly fades to marble white, however, eyes rolling back as he sways in place. The room for him grows warped and fish-eyed.

Fear causes Will to tremble as he progressively loses control, vomit projecting from his throat instead of an articulate reply.

Will’s surroundings fade to black midnight, Hannibal all but lost to him.

Hannibal swears in Lithuanian under his breath as he sharply steps to Will’s side as to both avoid the vomit and grab onto Will better. He tilts the empath’s head gently forward so he doesn’t choke, and swings an arm over his shoulder before swooping him up into his own steady hold after the puking ceases.

Hannibal has them in the connecting bathroom quickly, and steps into tub of the shower.

He keeps Will up, hooked under one arm as his free one reaches to turn the water on.

Cold drops cascade down their bodies, each of their pajama pants clinging to their skin.

Hannibal sighs in order to ground himself, and gets to work in cleaning the bile off of his partner’s face and chest using gentle lavender soap. He focuses on this task until the water runs clear down the drain, swirls of suds along with it.

He presses his forehead to Will’s and finds relief in that the fever has lessened. Breaking away, he looks pointedly at Will’s injured shoulder.

The stab wound. Inflamed. An angry red resembling that of a poisonous predator’s savage mouth.

Chiyoh had not done well in tending to this.

A spring coils tight in Hannibal’s belly, his eyes narrowing as his jaw twitches involuntarily.

He snaps his eyes shut for a moment before shifting his focus back to his main priority: Will.

He gingerly places the younger man down, placing his head at a resting position upon the tub’s ledge, before stepping out.

Hastily wiping off his feet on the mat, he briskly sets off to the guest bathroom to fetch the first aid.

Within moments, he’s back in the shower with Will, tending to his shoulder with antiseptic and a fresh set of stitches.

Setting the first aid aside, Hannibal adjusts the temperature of the water and brings them both to their feet again.

Will’s body threatens to loosen itself from the older man’s grip within a few moments, so Hannibal sinks down to one knee and rests Will’s back over the other. 

He sets to shampooing Will’s hair, ridding him of fever-induced sweat and the sweet odor that had come with it.

Hannibal holds the empath carefully now under a soothing, warm flow of water, his fingers gently massaging through Will’s curls.

Will’s head moves in a half swivel motion, mid-wash, a groan rumbling in his throat. He begins to display signs of waking and Hannibal watches curiously, his fingers cautiously stopping their work. He brings his hand away, resting it at his side.

“Don’t,” Will says weakly, with a groggy gaze.

His hand clumsily goes to touch Hannibal’s face, but exhaustion overtakes him too soon. His eyes flutter to a close once more.

Hannibal’s breath ceases, awestruck.

Keeping Will supported over his knee and safe in his arms, he watches the younger man slip back into the cradle of unconsciousness.

“Wade into the quiet of the stream,” he murmurs, stroking back the curls from his forehead. “For now. I’ve got you.”

He smiles softly, grateful that Will is alive and back to recovery.

He holds the hand that Will reached out with, lacing their fingers together as his thumb brushes against the back of Will’s hand.

***

Will stirs, nuzzling into Hannibal’s bare shoulder. He stills, tendrils of his conscience reaching out from the back of his skull, prodding at his brain to switch the gears back into reality.

His eyes flitter, scrunch together in a drowsy struggle, then open. He snuffles, running a hand through his messy mop of hair, and groans as he shifts to rest on his side.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Hannibal with a lazy grin and cloudy eyes. “Tear your stitches and I’ll have you for dinner.”

Will’s eyes grow murky with confusion. He clears his throat, shortly realizing the previous night wasn’t a fever birthed dream. His mouth works its way from a snarl into something milder. Kinder.

He winces, shifting once more, this time onto his back. His hand ghosts over the healing stab wound on his shoulder.

“Chiyoh did a shit job.” He offers bluntly, voice scratchy. “Thank you.”

“You should’ve brought it to my attention sooner, Will.”

Will disregards the criticism, instead bringing his attention to his new sleepwear, and the other’s. Different trousers, no shirts. Clean.

A corner of his mouth pulls upward.

Hannibal sits up enough to twist a bit and grab the water from the nightstand next to him. He passes it to Will.

Will simpers, noting that the glass is crafted from fine crystal. There’s the pretentious side.

He drinks. The crisp coolness of the water revives his system, soothing his throat along the way.

He thanks the older man, handing the glass back over to him.

Silence trickles between them, easing them back to lax states. They lay together, ruminating as they listen to one another’s soft breathing.

“Which meds do you have me on, Hannibal?” Twinges of pain flash through the muscle of his shoulder.

“Vicodin, at the present.” He sleepily replies. “Should feel its effects shortly.”

Will's brows knit, eyes narrowing.

Hannibal’s lips curve into a graceful, humored smile.

“Administered it to you when you initially showed signs of wakefulness earlier.”

Will huffs out a raspy laugh. “Bastard.”

“You’re welcome.”

Will moves closer, still on his back, seeking to be against the man once more.

Hannibal readjusts to accommodate and lightly embraces him, his chin resting upon Will’s head.

Will’s breath deepens and slows unsteadily, discomfort apparent.

“The room is in motion. Blurring. Like I’m in some fucked up abstract painting.”

“Is it any milder than yesterday evening?”

Will nods, but his mouth curls in frustration.

Hannibal expertly brings him closer, fingers now gently pulling through his curls as the palm of his hand cradles Will’s head.

Hannibal’s own dose, greater than Will’s due to the strain on his wounds, sets in, the day lit room of cream colored walls and bamboo flooring fading into a soft haze. He pulls the quilted comforter up on them, hoping Will will feel safer.

Will feels soft against him. So soft. Hannibal inhales the scent of lavender off him, his fingers further rustling the empath’s hair.

Will exhales as he relaxes, his breath tickling Hannibal’s skin.

The embrace the older man has on him tightens, encouraging Will to nuzzle closer, unaware that he has slipped into a tranquil slumber. The steady, gentle breathing pattern shortly triggers the acknowledgment.

Hannibal simply closes his eyes and drifts away himself, the warmth of the profiler’s body and soft tousled curls the last conscious details he takes with him into the stream of mind borne fairy-tales.


End file.
